A Spot of Tea and Circus
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: Draco/Harry. Harry tries juggling with too many things in his life, and he keeps missing his catch. A vignette about afternoon tea, conversations with old professors, and the in-between time of waiting. A companion piece to A Dusting of Snow and Cocoa.


Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

A/N: This is a companion piece to _A Dusting of Snow and Cocoa_.

**A Spot of Tea and Circus**

In the large, circular room that was the Headmistress' office, a fire was burning and sputtering in the hearth. Cold pale light streamed into the office through frost-rimed windows, which overlooked the snow-covered grounds. Portraits of headmasters and headmistresses of old filled the stone walls like an intricate jigsaw puzzle. They appeared to be asleep, though Harry caught a few of them sneaking glances at him.

After a casual look around the office, Harry sat down and waited for McGonagall to return. A tea set was laid out on the desk, along with a plate of gingerbread biscuits, small cakes, tea sandwiches, and a bowl of candied chestnuts. Harry helped himself to a bit of everything. The biscuit was so dry he had to wash it down with some tea. The homely chocolate cake, on the other hand, was a pleasant surprise: it was warm, moist and fulfilling with a hint of orange zest.

Leaning back in his chair, he sipped his tea and stared at the bookshelves. There were old books, new books, books without a spine, scrolls in protective cases. He doubted there were any fictional works in the collection, let alone the kind of speculative novels that Draco was fond of.

The thought of Draco warmed Harry's inside and made him smile. He would be seeing Draco in a few hours' time. It had been some time since they went out for dinner together. It had been even longer since he last stayed over at Draco's place. He missed those peaceful nights when they could laze about on the sofa or in bed; he missed those languid mornings when Draco would make coffee with a moka pot. Most of all, he missed Draco.

A spell of loneliness came over him and ate into his thoughts. It was his own fault, really. He tried juggling with too many things in his life, and he kept missing his catch. Each time a ring—a knife—a burning torch—tumbled to the ground with a clatter was like a sound of warning.

Taking a deep breath, Harry let it out and checked his watch: it was still early, though he had no idea what was holding up McGonagall. Time trickled by slowly while he waited, one grain of sand at a time. There was something unreal about this in-between time, as if he was at once here and not really here.

_Sounds like a line from those novels Draco loves to read._ Harry smiled ever so wryly to himself; in the next beat, his smile faded away. He had made Draco wait for him often enough; he ought to wait for Draco once in a while. Like the White Rabbit in mad wonderland, he was always dashing from one destination to the next while muttering _I'm late, I'm late_. Perhaps someday he would be too late.

"You look troubled, Harry."

Looking up, Harry found Dumbledore's portrait smiling kindly at him. Leaning back in his chair with hands folded atop his abdomen, Dumbledore had settled nicely in his overstuffed armchair, and no amount of trouble, be it great or small, could rouse him from his seat.

Even though the portrait was a mere replica of the great wizard who had lived and loved and died, Harry felt reassured beneath the portrait's steady blue gaze. "Just thinking how greedy and selfish I am." Harry shrugged. "I want everything, and my arms can't hold them all."

Dumbledore looked ever so thoughtful. "Have you considered holding fewer things lest the things you hold dear slip from your grasp and fall to the ground, lest you yourself fall apart?"

"Yes. But somehow it seems easier said than done." Harry paused. "Professor, which one would you choose? Love or work?"

A wistful smile appeared upon Dumbledore's face and was soon gone. Without a word he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and in all appearance fell into a deep slumber. Harry knew better than to ask again, but he could guess what the answer was. Not wanting to disturb his old headmaster's nap, he looked from one portrait to the next until he came upon another familiar face.

Occupying an inconspicuous spot on the wall, Snape's portrait had a gloomy air about it, and unlike its more illustrious neighbours, it was framed in plain, unvarnished wood. Looking morose in the portrait, Snape crossed his arms, drooped his head, and all but ignored Harry's presence. It seemed that even as a portrait, the former Potions master had no love for his least favourite student whom he had nonetheless saved many times. Harry did not mind; he was used to it.

"Hello, Professor Snape," Harry called out. As expected there was no response; he might as well be talking to a wall. "I just wanted to say this: I don't hate you, and thank you. That's all."

The figure in the portrait was as silent as a grave, but Snape's shoulders moved ever so slightly as if he was shifting in his sleep or huffing in annoyance. The silent treatment did not faze Harry; whatever loathing he once harboured towards Snape had all but vanished into the wind.

"You ought to say something, Severus," one of the headmistresses said, her weary drawl breaking the silence within the office and jolting Harry out of his musing. "It is only polite to at least acknowledge you are being spoken to."

"If he does not wish to speak, he has every right not to speak," Phineas Nigellus Black retorted while glaring at the headmistress who had spoken up. Phineas had always had a soft spot for Snape as fellow Slytherins, Harry remembered.

The headmistress, whose hair was windswept and grey, and whose face was more handsome than beautiful, cast Phineas a sharp look. "I have no doubt that Severus is perfectly capable of speaking for himself, Phineas."

"Yes, and he's perfectly capable of making his own judgement, Titania," Phineas jeered, and the two portraits glared daggers at each other.

The exchange was rather like a trapeze act between two antagonistic performers. Knowing better than to say anything, Harry ate a chestnut and drank his tea. Meanwhile, Snape had given up all pretence at being oblivious, and lifting his head like a bad-tempered Caterpillar who was rudely awoken from his smoke-filled dream, he scowled at Harry.

"As always, your tactlessness never ceases to amaze," Snape whispered.

Once upon a time, Harry would have retorted, but he had since learnt a thing or two about picking one's battle. "Sorry about that, Professor," he said mildly, and sitting bolt upright on the chair, he went on in a more serious tone. "Thank you for everything you've done. I'm sure my mother is happy to know that you have always been on her side."

Snape narrowed his eyes and let out a huff. "Conceited as always, I see—and spoken like a true Malfoy—or an associate in any case."

Harry blinked. Had the gossip already reached the ears of the portraits at Hogwarts? "I might have picked up a thing or two." Harry paused. "I just like to think that's how Mum feels because that's how I feel. Of course, I don't know how Mum really feels about you. If that's what you meant by _conceited_, I can't really argue with that."

For a moment or two, Snape regarded Harry with those inscrutable dark eyes of his, scrutinising, searching, seeing what Harry had not the slightest idea. Perhaps he was looking into those eyes that his real-life counterpart had died gazing into; perhaps it was something else entirely.

Several beats later, Snape heaved a sigh, leant back in his chair, and closed his eyes. "Take your self-gratification elsewhere, Potter." And he spoke no more.

The artist of the portrait had captured the spirit of the subject well, Harry thought. This was not a caricature; rather, it was a portrait of a man who was simply human, a man who had led a life balancing on a tightrope for love, a love that was not returned in the end. Did Snape ever regret devoting his life to keeping Harry safe, knowing the love of his life would never know what kind of sacrifices he had made?

"I've always known you are a Slytherin at heart, boy." Phineas' voice filled up the silence Snape had left behind, and he sounded pleased about something. "And you have good taste in associating yourself with the Malfoys. They are as illustrious as the Bla—"

"Do not mind him, young man," Titania interjected, her owlish hazel eyes peering at Harry with a knowing look. "He is but an old fool obsessed with his own blood—and a dead old fool no less."

"Need I remind you, _Titania_, that you are as dead as I am?" Phineas scoffed. "As a matter of fact, you are more dead than I am, for you were dead and buried long before my time!"

Caught in the crossfire between the feuding portraits, Harry held his tongue and let them be. His eyes roamed over the wall of portraits and came upon Dumbledore once more. A curious smile played about the old headmaster's lips, and his gaze held a twinkle of amusement. Feeling bashful all of a sudden, Harry drank some more tea and busied himself with picking a sandwich from the plate: cucumber or egg salad?

With a swish the oaken double door glided open, and Headmistress McGonagall walked in with her usual briskness, her austere black robe billowing ever so slightly behind her. As if a spell had been cast, all the portraits promptly pretended to sleep. Harry suspected some of the portraits were intimidated by the current Headmistress of Hogwarts.

"My apologies for the delay." McGonagall sat down behind her desk and studied Harry's face for several heartbeats, her brow knitted. "You look peaky. Eat something. I can't have you fall over during your lecture."

Harry complied and had himself an egg salad sandwich. McGonagall poured herself a cup of tea and took a sip, her gaze fixed upon Harry. For one nervous moment, Harry felt as if he were eleven years old all over again, a child terrified of being expelled from the school where he had made friends for the very first time, and from the magical world he was just beginning to discover.

"How is Mr Malfoy?"

Harry kept a neutral expression on his face; it seemed his dating Draco was common knowledge at this point. "He's fine." _The last time I saw him anyway._ A pang of wistfulness rippled ever outward inside him. "He does a bit of everything. A bit of illustrating, a bit of translating, a bit of piano-playing, a bit of bartending. He complains sometimes, but I think he enjoys what he's doing for the most part."

"That's good to hear." McGonagall looked genuinely relieved, and as though she felt the need to speak her mind, she added. "I'm afraid I hadn't done enough for him and his fellow Slytherins."

Taken aback by the confession, Harry fell silent. There were many things he could have said to his former Head of House, but his words would offer little beyond cold comfort. It seemed McGonagall had arrived at the same conclusion, for when she spoke again, she had returned to her usual no-nonsense self once more.

"Our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor has announced that she's resigning from her post at the end of the school year. We are looking for a new teacher, and so far we haven't been able to find anyone willing to take on the job. Would you be interested in taking on the teaching post for one year?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "It's not because of the curse that your current professor is leaving, is it?"

"No, Professor Crowley has been with us for three years, and she's a competent teacher. But in her own words, she _needs a change of scenery_." There was a hint of disapproval in McGonagall's voice; Harry suppressed the urge to smile. "If you need accommodation in the castle, we can provide it. If you would rather go home at the end of the school day, that is fine as well."

Taking his time, Harry sipped his tea and gathered his thoughts. Perhaps what he needed was also a change of scenery—or simply change. Nevertheless, whether or not becoming a full-time teacher was the answer to his plight remained to be seen. "I've never taken my NEWTs, and I've never properly graduated," he pointed out.

McGonagall squinted at Harry behind those severe-looking square glasses of hers. "I am aware of that. Exceptions can be made if necessary. If you aren't interested, you can forget about what I just said."

For a beat or two Harry looked up at Dumbledore's sleeping figure. He would have to come up with his own answer, he knew. "I would like to know more, Professor."

* * *

Clutching his canvas bag, Harry hurried along in the cobblestone alley, passing fairy-lit windows, Victorian lampposts, and a few passers-by. Snowflakes tumbled from the frozen sky and stung his face with their icy touch. Beneath the yellow streetlights, snow littered the ground in a glittering blur, a sheet of white disturbed by footprints leading off to various directions. Harry was in no mood to enjoy the scenery, however, for he was late.

Once upon a time, he had let relationships wither and die, relationships with people who soon got fed up with the waiting, with him and with how little he could give them. He did not want that certain something between him and Draco to end like this—even if life would be easier for Draco had he gone out with someone who was not the famously busy Harry Potter.

His breath coming out in puffs of steam, Harry arrived at a certain café where he was supposed to meet Draco. It took but a heartbeat or two before he located a familiar figure sitting alone at a table by the window: pale blond hair, a high-collar off-white jumper, and a stylish black coat. Harry felt his heart skip a beat. The jumble of noise that filled up every inch of empty space in his head was gone, and it left a ringing silence in its wake.

Chin in hand and eyes downcast, Draco did not notice he was being watched. He seemed lost in the web of his thoughts, and a shadow of weariness lingered upon his pale visage. With a pang Harry wondered what Draco was thinking about during this in-between time of waiting, the tantalising moment before a knife-thrower's knife hit or missed the target.

Stifling the urge to knock on the window and write sweet nothings on the glass for Draco to see, Harry stepped into the warmth of the café and went to Draco. There were many things he wanted—needed—to talk to Draco about, but it could wait.

"A Knut for your thoughts?" Harry asked lightly, his fingers itching to touch Draco's hair, Draco's skin, Draco's lips.

Looking up from the book he was staring at, Draco met Harry's gaze with those cool grey eyes of his, and a ghost of a smile played about his lips. "How stingy of you," he said in half-jest. "My thoughts are worth more than a Knut."

* * *

_Finis._


End file.
